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Posts Tagged ‘Review’

Maybe this isn’t the best time to be doing a television review. The picketers are still outside New York skyscrapers holding up blank signs for the writer’s strike (Joke provided by Wait Wait). Don’t want to get up your excitement when television as we know it is on the precipice of doom! I’ll go for it anyways….

While the last show I reviewed was a show I find personally enjoyable (Reaper), Pushing Daisies I believe is legitimately universally the awesome.

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Zaytoon is a new Middle Eastern restaurant on Vanderbilt and St. Marks. There’s another branch of it on Smith Street that I guess does okay. The Prospect Heights branch is recently opened, and I’d heard good things from a neighborhood friend. But maybe she’s never eaten Middle Eastern food ever before. Ever. Or maybe she has some disease where on her tongue crap tastes like filet mignon. It’s a mystery. Keep reading for an in-depth review of this new potential hot spot!

Okay – in the interest of total disclosure: when we first got there (me, mooseknuckle, and one more friend), the waitress came over and said ‘what can I get you gentlemen?’ In case you don’t know, pizappas is a lady. This waitress didn’t know, so maybe you don’t either. So as I proceed to write this scathing review there is always the possibility that my experience was taint(haha)ed from the very beginning. But whatever. Here goes….

I started out ordering a sampler platter. You know, the middle-easterners, they love their mezze. So I got the Zaytoon Combination Plate with (my choice) yogurt cucumber salad, fatoosh, babaganoush, stuffed grape leaves, and mujaderra.

Yogurt Cukes: these guys were near the best of the bunch, which is not saying much. A watery concoction that would have been an OK sandwich dressing did not hold up on its own. The topping of low grade feta did not help matters.

Fatoosh: In general I am a big fan of fatoosh, a salad featuring sour flavor from lemons and sumac, and toasted pita bread. What I was served didn’t actually seem like fatoosh. I think they might have accidentally substituted Israeli Salad, as it was a slightly soggy pile of cubed cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions. No pita bread. So it was either a bad Israeli Salad or a really bad fatoosh.

Babaganoush: This shit tasted sweet! Not sweet like scoring free tickets to a G&R tribute band show. Sweet like the jujubes that are the only candy you have left 2 weeks after Halloween. I don’t know what the shit was wrong with it but it tasted bad and like eggplant candy. Not in a good way. Dudes, check your recipes.

Stuffed Grape Leaves: Passable. They weirdly had like one slightly hard chick pea in each stuffed leaf. wtf?

Mujaderra: When made well, this is a delicious concoction of rice and lentils topped with fried onions. When I passed this shit in the display counter on my way to the bathroom, I knew before I tasted it that I had made a mistake in ordering it from Zaytoon. However, when I asked the waitress to switch it a mere 3 minutes after ordering, she said it was too late. Bummer. No comps even. So when it gets to the table, I found that it was cold! Usually served warm to room temperature, as you may know when rice is cold it gets hard. One bite of hard, cold rice was enough so that I didn’t venture any further into this dish. And there weren’t even any fried onions on top!

So that takes care of my meal. It stank. Mooseknuckle got a shawarma sandwich that was OK. Except for that it was a wrap! Like, a 1995 looking wannabe gym bunnie type of wrap. Like, that fad when they thought that if you put a chicken ceasar salad in a wrap it made it healthy. But anyway. He liked it medium. In my opinion the meat was a little overdone.

Friend #2 got kibbe that were ginormous! Like the size of nerf footballs. So if you’re into portions, go for that one. The flavor was too heavy on the cinnamon and the texture was too mushy in the middle but it was at least recognizable as kibbe. Of the three dishes ordered, it was the best.

The bread is delicious, but extra breads come 50 cents a pop. Their little way of keeping Atkins’ dream alive. And no matter how delicious freshly baked pita bread is, it loses a bit of its luster when dipped in babaganoush that tastes like an eggplant had a baby with a sugar cube and then stepped on it. Then ate it and puked it back up. Then died and its body decomposed with the puke. Then a cat ate the decomposed puke body and shat it out on your plate and drizzled it with olive oil.

So, screw you Zaytoon. I hate you. I’m never going to eat at you again. PEACE!

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This has been a long in coming review, and I apologize for the length. You should really blame the concert for having these bands all together in one evening.

When I first began my trip to Randall’s Island to see the big Arcade Fire/LCD Soundsystem/ Blonde Redhead/Les Savy Fav concert on 10/06/07… (more…)

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Oh man, last night was dudely. My hand hurts from high-fiving. My stomach hurts from attempting to digest chili, wings and beer. But most of all, my heart hurts from watching a hundred or so Bengals fans witness a tragic loss to the New England Patriots.

To explain. I don’t know anything about football. If I were a character in Varsity Blues, I would be James Van Der Beek sitting on the bench reading Kurt Vonnegut instead of the playbook. And then instead of being put in to replace the injured quarterback, I would continue reading Kurt Vonnegut and tell Jon Voight he’s a jerk. Last night however, I was invited to meet my roommates at Phebe’s Tavern & Grill on Bowery and 4th Street. This is a Cincinnati Bengals bar, and my roommate had a Bengals sweatshirt and plenty of enthusiasm to spare. The bar was separated into two rooms. In the front room, there is the main bar, as well as nice tables set up for dinner. The backroom has a smaller bar, with tons of tables set up for drinking and general merriment. We sat in the back room.

Apparently the famous dish at Bengals games is the Skyline Chili. This dish consists of spaghetti with a cheese and runny meat chili sauce on top of it. This deceptively simple dish was quite delicious, and we all joined the clean plate club within minutes of getting served. After a few more beers, the game started. I tried my best to relate to my surroundings by saying things like “The New England Patriots aren’t patriotic, they hate freedom!” and “Has anyone seen the movie Little Giants? It’s awesome!” The Patriots then scored a field goal, and the smiles around the room vanished momentarily. Luckily the waitress was efficient and the beers came at a steady pace. The pain was numbed.

Next we got wings. My roommate ChezJJP knows my aversion to spicy things, and ordered the wings at a medium spiciness. They were hot. Again, the waitress continued to supply drinks at a wonderful pace, which put the fire out in my mouth. The Patriots scored again, followed by the Bengals. It was then that I got to hear a song from everyone. I can’t recreate it here, but I can say that it was a beautiful and melodic aria sung by a collection of drunk people banging on tables. After this, the night got a little hazy. We left shortly before the game ended, but considering the 34-13 loss, we didn’t miss much. It should be said that it was a genuinely easy going and friendly crowd who never let the loss get to them too much.

Speaking as someone who most would say is more likely to attend a Bangles concert than a Bengals game, I had a pretty good time. So basically, if you aren’t really a sports fan, but are looking for a place to watch a sporting event, drink cheap beer and eat deliciously unhealthy meals with friends, Phebe’s is a pretty decent place. Obviously, if you’re a Bengals fan, this is a pretty good place too. You can say whatever you want about football, as long as you say it loud and follow it up with a high five. Isn’t that what being dudely is all about?

Phebe’s Tavern & Grill
359 Bowery at 4th Street
New York, NY

Who Dey?

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This past weekend I spent my Saturday evening in the Financial District at a bar called The Patriot. The Patriot is a large two story dive bar located on Chambers and Church St. Upon walking into The Pat, you’re met with the typical All-American pub garnish: flags, wood tables, jukebox, etc. Nothing too surprising. However, once you walk up the stairs onto the second floor you realize this is no ordinary bar as your eyes cannot help but be immediately drawn to the…wait for it…six bras hanging off the light fixtures. Now, I’m not saying getting six women to give up their unmentionables isn’t an accomplishment in itself, but I’m assuming the brassieres were most likely tossed up to the ceiling on separate occasions. Meaning, at one point there must have only been a single C or B-cup hanging off a light bulb. Therefore, you’d think after spotting the second or third isolated bra, the owner might have felt compelled to buy some more simply to provide a little balance. Bra balance. I mean, you can get like, five for $10 at Filene’s Basement. No one said ceiling lingerie needed to be nice, just trashy.

Along with the questionable undergarment decor, there’s something to be said about The Patriot’s jukebox, and how it sucks. I think it held about 40 cds, all of which were country. But that’s to be expected. But what’s not to be so expected is that only five or six songs actually get played. I’m not sure if it was the jukebox itself or the people paying for the songs that decided to run “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and “Sweet Home Alabama” in rotation, but either way, they should know that those songs, if heard more than once in an hour setting, will cause someone to go on a blog and whine about it.

And to my friends who are reading this right now (hi, guys), I know you’re probably saying to yourself, “But flung bras and ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ were both featured in your favorite Adam Garcia film, ‘Coyote Ugly.’ How can this not be your favorite place on earth outside of the $5.50 DVD bin at Wal-Mart?” My answer to this question is: I do not know. It’s a mystery to me as well.

But I must say, though The Patriot has its faults, it has some good points too. Well, really just one: $6 pbr and $9 bud pitchers. This means everyone can buy their own pitcher of beer and take swigs right out of them, like when people used to use those head-sized coffee cups. And last time I checked, people who get incredibly drunk off of cheap beer are really pleasant, especially when they’re frat boys who end the night with some pool cue dry humping.

Suggested Beer Glass

So in conclusion, while I wouldn’t give The Patriot my highest rating, I wouldn’t give it my lowest either. Overall I’d give it 1 1/2 Bubble Yums (out of a pack of five).

PS. Just so you know, this place would work well for any hipster looking to hang out somewhere that would give them the “ironic” bar cred.

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Let me tell you a little story about douchebags per square foot, RK.

One time at Union Hall, a Brooklyn Skeptic contributor was minding her own business, playin’ a little bocce, sippin’ a little vodka tonic. Some thirty-five-year-old man came up to her in his $700 artfully ripped jeans and cashmere sweater and asked if he could play against her. Being the incredibly kind, sweet, gregarious girl that this Brooklyn Skeptic contributor was, of course she agreed.

This man, however, had been watching the young lady play for a while, surmised that she was an excellent bocce player, and had decided that that meant that she was worth neither dignity nor human kindness. When the Brooklyn Skeptic contributor went up for her turn, she carefully lined up her shot, wound up and…

“Booogedy boogedy!” screamed the 35-year-old as he jumped on the court beside her. This obviously scared the fuck out of her and her shot rolled astray.

“Why did you do that?” asked the emotionally traumatized young lady.

“What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little pressure?”

The young lady, understanding that the man could have been intellectually impaired, drunk, or perhaps the spawn of Satan, decided to just let it go. He was clearly terrified by her awesome bocce skills. So the rest of that round goes by and the evil, old man doesn’t pull any more garbage.

When the next round begins, the young lady lines up her first shot again and sees the man ready himself to jump on the court again. She looks over to him.

“Stop being a dick, man. You’re no fun to play with at all.”

He whines for a little while and she vows to always bring pepper spray with her to Union Hall for the rest of time.

Now the moral of this story is: never put that many over-indulged thirty-somethings who fear middle age like the fucking bird flu in the same room with a bunch of liquor and kitschy furnishings.

I’ll stick to Floyd, thank you very much.

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